


The Taste of My Blood is Sour, The Feel of Your Touch is Cold

by SaltyWords (agent4hire22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x22, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, The Prisoner Coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent4hire22/pseuds/SaltyWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So when Castiel stopped Dean before all the pieces of their life started falling down, hand on his shoulder like he’d done so many times before, not afraid to touch him, but afraid of the energy that met him when he did, it was in an attempt to save them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of My Blood is Sour, The Feel of Your Touch is Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for "The Prisoner" 10x22  
> I am feeling the anxiety for the season finale and it probably shows in this.

Only you can bring the color in

You alone breathe the hope into our world 

The patient, pleading ground

Without you, brittle, gray and brown

  
  


Only you can bring the color in

So I and mine can carry on to

You can bring the color in

So I and mine can carry on the way

  
  


~ “Monsoons”

Puscifer

  
  
  
  


Dean’s knuckles weren’t anywhere as painful as the ruin of Castiel’s heart. 

He didn’t want to fight Dean. He could have. He could have powered up, full angel fury, blue eyes, raised wings, and immovable heavenly force, but he found in that moment to feel so incredibly human, so emotionally violated, that the thought never even occurred to him.

_I will have to watch you murder the world_ , he told Dean, and it was the truth. Because Dean was strong. He was stubborn and an immovable object in himself. He could likely last through a long time with the Mark slowly eating him away before he’d officially become demonic, and that meant years. Sam Winchester would be long gone. Long eaten by his own life-altering task of trying to cure Dean of this evil, immanent to drown by the force of his white whale.

And Dean had no other family.

Castiel would have to watch it happen. He would spend all of his time trailing the beast, watching him turn more and more every day. Until it took Dean completely. Until all the good memories of Dean had been replaced by blood, and violence, and heartache. Until Castiel’s wings were shed completely by his body, rejected of heavenly power, consumed by guilt, and sadness, and fear. Until he himself was no longer an angel so much as a scavenger on the planet, forever following the wake of bodies, wanting to both protect and end the demon just to stop the heartache.

And Cas would do it. If that’s what Dean needed, he would stay with him. The rest of the world be damned.

And, oh, it would be damned. Cas could read it in every line of Dean’s tired face. The power of evil that would unleash. Castiel knew if he let Dean walk from that room, from the bunker, from his side, that that was the future. There would be hope, no available alternative. It would be all of their damnation. 

So when Castiel stopped Dean before all the pieces of their life started falling down, hand on his shoulder like he’d done so many times before, not afraid to touch him, but afraid of the energy that met him when he did, it was in an attempt to save them all.

Dean wouldn’t hear it. He was deafened by the anger of betrayal. By the whispering of the Mark as it grated pieces of his soul into black soot.

“Dean, please,” Cas heard himself say, his voice cracking in his throat, his eyes bleary with tears and blood. He grabbed Dean’s arm, begging through a gentle touch to try to break through to the man he’d fought next to for so many years. The man he’d stopped an apocalypse with. A last-ditch effort after the first round of pleas had ended only in Castiel’s bloodshed.

_I don’t want to fight you._

_You can kill me if you need to._

_But I won’t fight you._

_I love you and I need you to stop._

But the blood choked in his throat. He felt his lips swelling from where they’d torn against his teeth. He felt the way Dean’s arm trembled as he pressed hard into his chest, clutching his tie in his fist.

Only, that  little snap from behind Dean’s dead eyes and blood-caked face, that was Dean. Castiel knew he was still there, broken and scared.

Scared of what he’d just done, or what he was capable of.

Dean jarred the blade away from Castiel’s chest and drove it into a book cover. The movement of his arm was so ragged and erratic, it looked like he was fighting against himself to do it.

His weight lifted from Castiel and he moved away. Cas tried to grab him, keep hold of his wrist. If only he could hold him, maybe his touch would keep Dean there. Maybe it would bring him back like Dean’s did when Castiel was being mind-controlled by Naomi. 

“I won’t miss next time,” Dean said as he walked out. The crack in his voice, the fear in his eyes, they were a warning, not a threat. The truth was, he didn’t miss this time, but at least he pulled the punch.

Castiel watched him leave, just on the downhill side of the Angel Blade, the handle of it splicing through his point of view. It punctuated the moment. The blade was Castiel’s fate tooth-picked into the cover of that book, because he knew he couldn’t walk away. He would be with Dean until his end for better or worse. Cas had promised him he wouldn’t let him turn back into that monster. And he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do everything in his power to keep that promise. If there was nothing he could do, then he would at least keep him from being alone.

  
  


Castiel was still laying on the floor when Sam came in. It must have been almost an hour later. His wounds had healed, but he couldn’t seem to gather the strength to get up. He heard the hurried clunk of Sam’s feet down the metal stairs. Heard him muttering and panting, thrown by the state of the bunker. The broken disarray the Stynes had left it in.

“Cas? No, no no.” Sam fell next to Castiel and grabbed his coat. He carried the smell of sweat and panic with him, just as Dean had. And musty cotton. A Winchester staple smell. The thrum of his heart was a taught hammer.

Castiel’s eyes still gingerly lingered up and down the Angel Blade buried next to his head. Slipping around it over and over again as if looking at it would give him another chance to talk to Dean somehow. Like the blade was a riddle, and the answer was contained in the silvery reflection. But, all he saw was the colors of himself twisted back at him. The answer wasn’t in there, unless the answer was Castiel. And after everything, he was sure it wasn’t. 

“God, Cas,” he rasped. “I thought you were dead. I was afraid you were-- What the hell happened?”

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly.

Sam’s eyes welled, his jaw muscle twitching as it tensed in his temple. “It should’a been me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to go.”

“No.” Cas shook his head. He felt the dried blood pull against the flex in his lips. “I think he would have killed you, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, he tried to kill you.”

Castiel’s eyes slipped back over the the stuck Angel Blade. “Almost,” he agreed. “Yes. But, he left.” The words came slowly from him. He felt like he was swimming. As if his brain was drowning in the tears he was afraid to shed.

“I’m the one he should be killing.”

Cas looked over, finally breaking his gaze on the blade. “Dean shouldn’t be killing anyone,” he growled. “He shouldn’t be killing you, or me, or that boy over there.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the brown mop-haired teenager in a heap next to Eldon Styne. “Was he…”

“He was innocent,” Cas said. He didn’t want Sam to try to justify it. He wasn’t sure that that was Sam’s aim, but regardless, the time for denial and excuses was over. They’d fucked around for too long, as Dean might say. “And the boy will be the first of many if Rowena doesn’t have the cure.”

Sam swallowed, held a hand out and helped Cas to sitting. Cas stretched his fingers and checked the mended bones of his previously snapped forearm. Everything was back into place. No worse for the wear, physically, anyway.

“She’s holding out. She wants me to kill Crowley--”

“So?”

“So, I tried, and it didn’t work.”

“What do you mean? Crowley’s just a regular demon.”

“I know, but she gave me a hex bag that was supposed to kill him. He just, he burned it. It looked like it was working, but then it didn’t work. He almost snapped my neck. I don’t know why he didn’t, but he didn’t. And, now…” Sam shrugged. “I don’t even know where to look for him.”

Castiel squinted, tried to understand Sam’s train of thought. “Did you summon him?”

Sam looked blankly back at him. His face was wrought with exhaustion and grief. His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other.

“Crowley is a demon, Sam. You can summon him.”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re right. I don’t know why…” He shook his head, ran his hands over his face, through his hair.

“I understand,” Cas patted his arm, and a flash of Dean patting Castiel’s shoulder passed his eyes. He was suddenly intimately aware of the absence of Dean’s warmth on his coat. Then, the splatter of blood on his sleeve reminded Castiel of the fight, and his heart slunk back in his chest again. “You’re tired,” he added quietly. “You haven’t slept,” 

“I can’t. How’m I supposed to sleep when my brother’s running around killing everyone? It’s worse than when he was a demon, Cas.”

Cas licked his lips, tasted the bitter tang of his blood and wiped a hand over his mouth. The feeling was starting to come back to him. His flame lit anew like a pilot light left full-open. Dean was running around unchecked, Rowena had a cure for it. Why was he sitting there in a mess of his own blood feeling sorry for himself when Dean needed him? When Dean needed him in the worst possible way.

“I will summon Crowley. I’ll do whatever I have to and we’ll get that cure from the witch. We’ve nothing left to lose, Sam. She doesn’t want to die. I no longer care if I do. You?”

Sam let a heavy breath from his chest. Tears broke his eyes unabashed and he shook his head. “We’ve gotta undo it. I can’t let Dean… It’s everything he’s never wanted.”

Castiel nodded, crawled to his feet. Plucked the Angel Blade and shook the book from the tip. _Harnessing the Power of the Stars_ , the cover read. _A Guide to Astrology._ He thought of his grace, of its healing powers and cocked his head.

_Maybe my grace could…_

“I will save him or die trying, Sam,” he said, eyes on the book cover. “What do I have if not Dean?” he bucked a chin in Sam’s direction. “And you.”

“I know, Cas.” Sam wiped his eyes, shuffled hopelessly lost in the torn interior of the bunker. “Where is he? Do you know where he went? The Impala’s still parked out front. We can’t track him if he didn’t take it.” 

\---

  
  


Dean stumbled into the hotel room. Pegged his knee against the bed frame. Didn’t react. He rubbed his fingers together and felt the grit roll in between the tips. Noticed the blackness of his nail beds, soiled with blood and dirt.

The lights flickered and his eye twitched. Just a surge of power in the old hotel wires. But, maybe it was because of him.

_How many did you kill?_

Dean choked down a swallow of dry mouth. Sandpaper and rubber. “I don’t know.”

_The yard?_

“Two in the yard,” Dean said. “Stabbed and shot. Shot twice.”

_In the clinic?_

He paced over the threadbare carpet. “Three. One woman, two men.”

_How?_

“Throat sliced, stabbed with a needle and uh… choked.”

_You broke his neck._

“Yes, his neck.”

_Daddy Styne._

“Yes.”

He paced back to the bed. Same path, eyes on the floor. The dull sucking gray carpet. Staples peeking through the seam.

_Upstairs?_

He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the grit of dried sweat roll up with the slide of his palm. Dust and pebbles in the sheets.

“Twelve upstairs. Men. All men.”

_How?_

Dean shook his head.

_How?_

“I don’t… stabbed. Probably stabbed.”

_You can’t remember?_

He paced back. To the edge of the bathroom linoleum. Green and tan diamonds. Bumps and cracks in the surface. Shook his head.

The lights flickered and he looked up.

_It was just a surge of electricity._

“Yes,” he said. His voice sounded distant. Hollow, like through a tin can.

He grabbed at his chest. Pulled the shirt out from his neck. It was tight. It was suffocating.

_The bunker?_

“What?”

_How many at the bunker?_

“Uh, three.”

_Just three?_

Dean swallowed another mouthful of cotton. The lump settled halfway down his esophagus. It shared space with that nagging tinge of anxiety he couldn’t shake.

“Yes. One in the dungeon. Stabbed. Two in the library. Shot.”

_Not four?_

“No. Three. Stabbed. Shot. Shot.”

_What about the angel?_

He bit his cheeks and paced to the bed again. The brown bedspread, rife with stains. It would hide blood.

The blood.

Dean looked at his knuckles, the blood that stained them.

_How did they die, Dean?_

He bit his cheeks. “Stabbed. Shot. Stabbed. Stabbed. Choked. Then the group: stabbed. The bunker: stabbed, shot, shot.”

_Then why are your knuckles bloody, Dean? Why do they ache?_

Back to the edge of the linoleum. It squeaked under his shoe. He looked up, saw his face in the mirror. Saw Cas’ face. Bloodied. Beaten.

“No.”

_Yes, Dean. Did you kill him? Was it four?_

“No.”

_You should have killed him._

Dean thought he could feel the weight of the Angel Blade. He pecked his back belt loop but there was nothing there. Eyes wide. Reflection staring back at him. Castiel’s reflection. His ears rang like a flat-lined heart monitor.

_You don’t have the blade because it’s still in his ribcage._

“No.” Dean’s voice scrambled out of his chest. “I didn’t.”

_You should have._

His turbine heart pattered out of rhythm. Skipping and tumbling. He pulled the shirt away from his throat again.

“I didn’t kill him. I stopped. I stopped.”

_How many did you kill?_

“Two in the yard,” he said. “Three in the clinic. Twelve in the main house. Three in the bunker.”

_Four in the bunker._

“Three in the bunker!” he screamed. He punched the mirror, watched the reflection of Cas splinter and fall away, just shards in the sink.

The glass teeth bit into his knuckles, tore the skin. He watched the blood bubble at the surface. Jump from his hand in ugly red plops. “Three,” he said.

He looked at the bed. “The color will hide the blood.” 

_There were twenty. Twenty lives._

“And not the angel?”

_And not the angel._

The breath rasped out of him and he froze. He realized suddenly that the voices had switched. 

He was losing it. 

“Oh, fuck. Cas. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please,” he said. The room swallowed his words. His hands shook as he tried to rub the haze from his eyes. He picked up a shard of glass and felt it etch into his fingertips as he pressed irreverently against the sharp edges. “What do I do? I can’t stop.”

He gashed the Mark, cutting deep into his arm. Well past the scar. Into the fat and muscle. He watched the blood ooze out, drip down the back of his arm. Saturate his rolled sleeve. He felt his eyes dilate, his muscles tremble in anticipation.

“I need you,” he whispered. “Please, I need you. Help me.”

The Mark cooed. 

  
  


\----

  
  


Castiel’s chest seized mid sentence. Dean’s voice floated to him strained and drenched in fear. It fuzzed in and out like a distant radio channel. 

“Cas, you okay?” Sam tapped him.

“I can hear him,” he gasped. “He’s praying to me.”

“What’s going on?” Sam came in close, both hands on Cas’ shoulders. “Is he okay?”

Castiel felt the horror in his chest like a ball of fire. Dean was out of time. The stress from Charlie’s death had apparently shattered his resolve and his hold on reality. His grip on himself  was slipping away like sand through open fingers.

“He’s far from okay,” Cas said. His eyes found Sam. The wide helplessness drained from them, his face pulled tight and solemn. “We do this now. No pulled punches. No hesitation. Do you understand?” Cas clenched his jaw, made sure he saw that clarity in Sam’s face. Whatever they were going to release from the Book with that cure would likely test the foundation of that resolve. It might even be worse for the world than letting the Mark take Dean. He had to know they were both on the same page. 

Castiel was certain now that what they were wasn’t heroes. None of them were heroes. A hero was a false idol. A perfect creature without flaw or self interest. A black and white concoction of moral disambiguation. Not even God could live up to that ideal. But, this, Cas was sure, would push them more toward evil than neutral. And Sam had to understand that.

Sam nodded, ground his teeth anxiously, and straightened.

“Good,” Castiel said as Dean’s words strung like cobwebs behind his eyes. “Because now I know where he is.”


End file.
